


Vandermatthews Mini Fics

by TopHatCat



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anger, Chapter 1: Colter (Red Dead Redemption 2), Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Rings, Winter, hosea slaps dutch, mentions of other gang members - Freeform, vandermatthews
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHatCat/pseuds/TopHatCat
Summary: (Previously Red Dead Redemption Mini Fics) This is a place I would like to amass some mini  fics for your reading pleasure.1: Colter (Winter fluff)2: Dutch's Rings (hand holding)3: Tyrant (What if Hosea got angry at Dutch?)4: Hosea's Hands (an exploration of the man)5: (Hosea steals Dutch's bed for the night)6: The Proposal (Dutch proposes to Hosea)7: (Bessie/Hosea/Dutch fluff)8: Okay (Happy ending deaths)9: He Loves Me Not (fluff)
Relationships: Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 43
Kudos: 151





	1. Colter

It was cold up in the mountains and no one liked it. Well...Jack liked it, but he was a child and the chill didn't settle in his bones the way it did with the older members of the van der Linde gang. Uncle and Pearson drank more than usual, Swanson was buried under five blankets and Strauss hadn't stopped complaining once. Hosea's cough rattled in his chest like his ribcage was filled with dice that wouldn't stop rolling on a game table.

The old man sat in front of the fire in the cabin most of the time, trying to keep warm, making plans with Dutch or Arthur when they were in.

Tonight Arthur was gone, however, hunting overnight with Charles again. Hosea worried, but he always worried, and if he was honest, Arthur was probably the safest man alive in the wilderness, as long as he stuck by Charles. That strong quiet man had a knowledge of nature that outdid even Hosea's.

From where he sat in the rickety wooden chair, he could hear the wind howling, the fire crackling, and Molly griping at Dutch again. Dutch was griping back, and within a few moments the woman stormed out, saying, "I'll just go sleep with the women, then!"

"Fine!" Dutch retorted from the doorway, voice cracking. Molly huffed loudly and vanished out the door. Hosea watched through the window until she made it into the opposite building, then looked to Dutch. The other man's mouth twisted into a frown.

"Don't say a word."

"I wasn't about to,"the old man replied, then broke down into a coughing fit that had him seeing stars.

When he could breath again, Dutch was at his side in the other chair, one hand on his back and the other on his knee, gripping it.

"You don't sound so good, old man," the outlaw said, his tone shockingly soft in comparison to what it had been moments before.

"Well, that's what happens when you're dying," Hosea wheezed, trying to chuckle. Dutch's grip on his leg tightened.

"You ain't dying on me yet."

"I'll try not to."

Dutch's voice was a bit hazy, the world a little fuzzy, and he could taste iron behind his teeth. This cold wasn't good for him....

Hands slid around his side, he was lifted from the chair, leaning heavily again the other man as he was led into the room he was sharing with Arthur. He was shaking now, hadn't realized how much the fire had died down, and flinched when Dutch opened the front of his coat.

"I'll sleep in it," he argued, trying to push the hands away, but Dutch persisted.

"We'll be warmer with less cloth between us. Body heat works quite well, as you know."

"No." Hosea shook his head as Dutch pushed the coat off his shoulders. "If someone comes....?"

The outlaw shucked off his own furry overcoat and sat down on the bed. "Darling... Arthur's gone, Molly went off, and no one else is idiotic enough to wander through that oncoming blizzard to this cabin's door."

Hosea knew he was right, wanted him to be right, wished he had the sense about him to kiss Dutch right then and there, but his body decided otherwise, sending him into another fit. The coughs forced their way out as the cold air dug into his skin, and he let Dutch lay him down and cover them both in heavy blankets. Wordlessly, still breathless and weak, he pressed his back against Dutch's chest and the other man curved his arm around the con man's waist, tugging him close.

"Rest, Hosea," Dutch said gently into his ear as he placed soft kisses into gray hair. "You're gonna be okay."

Slowly, he stopped shivering as the warmth of Dutch's body seeped into his bones, heating him up better than any fire. Somehow, for the first time since they'd entered these damnable mountains, he didn't feel a cough welling up, and proper sleep weighted his eyelids. Dutch hummed softly against his shoulders, soothing tense muscles, and Hosea couldn't help but relax. Deciding not to fight it anymore, he let his eyes drift shut and fell into the elusive peace of sleep.


	2. Dutch's Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hosea is tired of Dutch’s rings getting in the way.

Hosea was tired of Dutch’s rings. It wasn’t that he disliked the jewelry; he had given one of the bands to the man himself in fact, it was just that….

“I can’t feel your hands.”

Dutch gave him a confused look over the short space between them. “In case you hadn’t noticed, old man, we’re in the process of holding hands right now.”

“I’m aware of that, dumbass,” Hosea said, rolling his eyes. “I just meant that your rings are getting in the way.”

“I always wear these rings.”

“And I’m tired of them impeding the activity of our fingers interlocking.”

Lifting Dutch’s hand, the con man slowly pulled the rings off one by one. The band on his middle finger stuck a bit, and Hosea had to tug it off. When he’d laid all the rings on the log they were sitting on, he observed the hand he held.

Dutch’s hands were beautiful, in Hosea’s opinion. Tanned tough, with strong fingers that had pale stripes where the rings had been. His knuckles were pronounced, with a sprinkling of dark hair that thickened as it traveled down toward the outlaw’s wrist. His palm was rough, calloused, for as high and mighty he acted, Dutch was a working man, taking the hardest route through life.

“What are you doing, Hosea?” Dutch asked. The question may have sounded annoyed had the man’s voice not taken on a soft, loving tone.

“Just looking…admiring.” Hosea lifted the outlaw’s hand, pressing a gentle kiss on the knuckles. “I can read you in your hands.”

“And what do they say to you?”

“That you’re right.” Hosea looked up at Dutch, green eyes crinkling in a smile. “Those rings are a part of you, and I love every bit, grandeur and all.”

He reached for the gold bands, but Dutch stopped him. The outlaw curled his fingers through and around the conman’s, locking their grasp.

“Forget the grandeur for tonight,” he said in a tone low and soft. “For now…let’s just hold hands.”


	3. Tyrant

“What _are_ you?”

The air is loud with the shouted question and the lingering echo of the slap. Dutch stares up at the man who hit him, eyes wide and throat empty of words. The mark on his cheek tingles and burns. The book he holds in his lap is a distant memory.

“Rather, what do you _think_ you are?”

Hosea’s green eyes are livid, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace as he stares down at the man sitting in the fold-out chair before him. Hosea doesn’t get angry. Not at Dutch. 

His palm stings and starts to itch as seconds tick by. He speaks again, can’t stand to let the silence go on too long.

“Because you are not the man I knew.”

Bill is frozen with a spoonful of stew lifted halfway to his mouth. Kieran has his hands curled at his side, as if a child caught between rowing parents, and Karen looks like she wants to take several more gulps from the empty bottle in her hand. By the fire, Abigail folds little Jack into her arms, kisses the top of his head. John’s hand settles on her shoulder. No one moves.

“ _You_ are not my friend.”

Hosea’s hand trembles now, the power in him waning. A cough crawls its way out of his lungs to the back of his throat and he tries to swallow it. It comes out in a choked sputter and, where he sits, Arthur’s muscles tense further and his arm shifts involuntarily, as if to reach out. He doesn’t rise, blue eyes boring holes into the space between his fathers.

“You are something else.”

The words have almost lost their strength now and that only makes the atmosphere more distressing. Burdening. Terrifying. The air weighs down, heavy and thick on Hosea’s narrow shoulders. His lean body seems to bend toward the ground as Dutch rises to his feet, the book laid closed on the seat he vacates. Dutch is shorter in height, taller in bearing.

Hosea’s hand is still lifted, as if he’s forgotten what to do with it, and Dutch catches it in his own grasp. The gold and silver rings leave dents in the other man’s skin.

“What am I?”

Dutch asks the question in a subdued tone, as if the slap had struck all bluster and bravado from him. Hosea’s face is impassive. Everyone is still, turned to stone by the pain in the old man’s eyes. The air bristles with unspoken emotions. Both men look like they wish they were allowed to cry. Hosea answers in a voice rubbed raw with heartache.

“You are a tyrant.”


	4. Hosea's Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reflection of the man. An exploration of Hosea through his hands.

Hosea's hands had been through a lot. They'd seen stagecoach jobs and gunfights and campfire sing-alongs. They had been washed and scratched and shot at. They had been touched and held and kissed.

Hosea's hands were much like the rest of him; slim and wiry, but well built. The years had turned them calloused, brought nicks from knives and soreness from age. The sprinkling of golden hair over the knuckles was now a shade of silver.

Hosea's hands had done a lot. Quite often had they held Silver Dollar's reins, or gripped the handle of a gun. Sometimes their fingers slipped into the pockets of innocent passersby or traced along a blueprint of particularly prosperous city bank. At night, those hands would flutter up in the firelight, emphasizing epic tales of days gone by.

Hosea's hands had touched many things. They'd felt the fur of Silver Dollar's hide, the leather of a saddle. They'd been stained green by plants and been wrapped in the off-white linen of bandages that turned red with blood. They had felt the soft skin of women and men whom they’d never touched again.

Hosea’s hands had found Bessie under their ministrations many a time, before and after marriage bound them. When he touched her, to brush a strand of hair from her face or push the shoulders of her dress down, his hands were as gentle as could be. His hands moved her with more care than the finest china and held her with more enthusiasm than any jewel that had ever passed through his fingers. She was the dearest thing his hands ever touched, and what shocked him most was that she had willingly stepped into his grasp. The hold of an outlaw. And so with every point of contact, he tried to hide all that his hands had done, afraid that the villainy they had performed would stain her.

He did not have to be so careful with Dutch.

Dutch had damned hands as well, guilty of blasphemous things, and Hosea did not fear corrupting him. His fingers had tangled in Dutch’s hair more times than they could remember, gripped a wrist or shoulder countless more. His hand had been enfolded in Dutch’s grasp at campfires and in jail cells and during quiet fishing trips that turned into an excuse to touch each other everywhere.

Sometimes Hosea’s hands had gripped Dutch so tightly it hurt, and sometimes he wondered if he should have held on harder. Longer. Or if he should have let go a long time ago.

Hosea’s hands shook sometimes. More and more often now they lifted to cover a cough or rub his back to try and relieve the pain in his muscles there. They accepted Arthur’s hand to be pulled up from the ground, and their joint’s ached, but his fingers could still wrap firmly around a fishing pole or the handle of a gun without hesitation.

Hosea’s hands had raised a family over the years. Every chance they got they’d wrestle John’s hair to submission, pulling a brush through the dark locks, or held a book, turning the pages slowly as Arthur and John watched over his shoulder, sounding out the words with him. His hands did up buttons on shirts and knotted handkerchiefs and tied many a ribbon around Tilly’s braid. His finger’s had taken the brim of Arthur’s hat to tip it low over his eyes, and they’d ran over Abigail’s back in soothing motions when she cried. His grasp had lifted his grandsons to his chest; he loved being able to pull Jack to his knee and ruffle his hair, and he treasured the precious few moments Issac had taken his hand.

Hosea’s hands never got a rest and it made them tired and sore and creaky. But that was an immeasurable price to pay when Arthur shook his hand after a job well done, or John grabbed it to drag him off somewhere, or Bessie lifted his knuckles to her soft lips, or Dutch entwined their fingers together as they watched the sunset burn over the desert.

Hosea’s hands were a reflection, a peek into a beautiful, tragic, full life lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea popped out of nowhere and seemed a fun way to explore Hosea.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hosea steals Dutch's bed for the night.

Hosea enjoyed sleeping out under the stars, he couldn't deny it. For years he'd felt peace, stretched out on his back, hands folded under his head as he watched the stars twinkle above him as he drifted off. Bessie had liked stargazing too; they could find all the constellations through every season between the two of them.

However, that was ages ago, and the years were not known for their kindness. In the chilly night air drifting over their current camp, Hosea felt old age wearing on him as he tried to fall asleep.

The bedroll was too thin; he could recognize every dirt clod and rock jabbing into him from beneath, and his joints complained painfully about the hard earth and brisk wind that ghosted across his skin. He shivered and rolled over, trying to get comfortable. If he could just fall asleep, he wouldn't be bothered by mother nature's more unkind aspects. 

Just as he was drifting off, however, a snort interrupted his sleep and he let out a groan as Bill began his nightly routine of being the loudest fucking snorer in the world. Yanking a blanket over his head did nothing, and Hosea let out a sharp sigh.

The bumps, the cold, the snoring...it was all too much. He would never fall asleep like this, especially now that he was hyper aware of every little annoyance.,

Sitting up he rubbed his eyes and cast a look around camp. Everyone else was asleep, except Javier on guard duty. Even Arthur was in his cot, home from another one of his excursions across the countryside. All was peaceful and Hosea's eyes drifted to Dutch's tent. The flaps were closed, as they usually were at this time of night, and as he watched, the owner of the tent pushed out of it, heading toward the trees at the edge of camp, no doubt to relieve himself before settling in for the night.

When Dutch went through the canvas, Hosea's eye caught a glimpse of the interior of the tent; the rug on the floor, the cot, the warm lamplight. To his sore form and tired mind, it looked like heaven.

After a moment of consideration, he glanced over at the trees. Dutch had yet to emerge, and with a determined air, Hosea got to his feet, crossed the short space between his bed and the tent, and went in.

It was warm inside, far warmer than he'd thought, and he saw Dutch had two oil lamps burning, the bastard. Turning one out and the other down, Hosea pushed back the covers on the cot and lay on the mattress. There was a quilt, and a deerskin, not to mention the oddly shaped knitted thing Karen had made before she swore she'd never make another blanket again. All three of these covers were heavy on Hosea as he pulled them to his chin, but they didn't suffocate him. Rather, they hugged him in an embrace he thought he'd love to stay in forever. Tucking his hand under his cheek, he relaxed, feeling the warmth slowly seep into his bones.

He must have been more worn out than he'd thought, for he was suddenly waking to Dutch standing over him, hands on hips and a smirk under his moustache.

"Well, what's this then?" he asked, leaning over to observe the occupant of his bed.

Hosea pulled an arm out from under the blankets, placing his palm on Dutch's face and giving a small shove. "I'm stealing your bed."

"This is a rather sloppy theft, Mister Matthews," Dutch said. "Usually you don't stick around and wait for the real owner to come back and claim what's theirs."

"If I have to sleep on another rock, I'm quitting," Hosea reported. "Not to mention Bill's snoring!"

"Now that is something no one in camp can escape from," Dutch said. He spread his arms. "But where am I to sleep, my friend?"

"You try my bed," Hosea mumbled, ducking under the blankets. "Then maybe you'll have some pity on this old man. Or you can kick me out, I suppose."

He thought that Dutch might actually make him leave: the outlaw was not one to skimp on whatever comfort could be found out in the wilderness. But then a chuckle rumbled in the younger man's throat and Hosea felt him lean down to place a light kiss on the only part of his head that was still exposed.

"You win this time, old girl. Sleep well."

Hosea peered over the edge of the blanket in surprise, watching as Dutch grabbed an extra quilt and settled down on the rug. A word of thanks bubbled up in his throat, but he stopped himself. He deserved a good night's rest, and stoking Dutch's ego, making him think of himself the 'hero' for letting Hosea use a cot? the conman decided to avoid encouraging that mentality. Instead, he turned onto his side, closed his eyes, and instantly fell into sleep.

When he woke up, more rested than he'd felt in ages, he was immediately aware of the presence at his back and his inability to roll over in the small bed. His hand moved down to where Dutch's arm was curved around his middle and he idly petted the hairs on the other man's wrist. Dutch's face was buried in his neck and by turning his head Hosea could rest his cheek on the outlaw's temple. He could feel the deep breaths Dutch took, too slow and soft to be false, and he allowed himself a small kiss to dark curls.

"Selfish bastard," he whispered, and smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let Hosea have a bed, R*


	6. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simply this: Dutch proposes to Hosea :3

Dutch was a romantic at the heart of it, truly. He’d imagined how he’d propose to Hosea a thousand times, each one more romantic and beautiful than the last. He’d get on his knee on the shoreline of some lake at sunset, perhaps, or fill his tent with flowers and call the unsuspecting man inside. Maybe he’d wait for a night when the sky was clear, not a cloud in sight, and he’d lay a blanket out for them underneath the stars and wait until the moment was right.

Mostly he wanted it to be a surprise. Not an unpleasant one, of course, where Hosea was left embarrassed or upset, no. They’d talked it over enough, sometimes casually, sometimes more seriously, as they considered the future of the gang. Personally, Dutch though the idea of marriage was a little silly. He’d never been a fan of the idea of binding oneself to someone for all eternity; it seemed suffocating. However, he couldn’t imagine being at Hosea’s side like that to be anything but perfect, especially if it made the other man happy. After Bessie, he had wondered if Hosea would be against getting married again, but the conman had made it clear that marrying Dutch was something he’d look forward to, if they ever got the chance.

That was the statement of the year, in Dutch’s opinion. It seemed as if they _never_ got a chance. Blackwater, Cornwall, the Pinkertons…all of it had messed up every plan they’d made, but finally, finally they were nearly back to where they had been all those months ago, and would be packing up for Canada any day now.

One more job, that was it for them; a small-town bank that would give them enough money to move on from their life of wandering and give them a proper ranch somewhere up north.

The four of them had done it themselves, like the old days when it had just been them. ‘The four’ being Dutch, Hosea, Arthur and John. The actual job had gone well, and they’d split up into two groups to head back to camp. On the way, however, Dutch and Hosea had had the unfortunate luck of running into a couple of bounty hunters, forcing them to flee and leave their horses behind in order to hide.

It was behind a stable at the edge of town that they found themselves hiding, crouched between hay bales and the barn, listening for the bounty hunters to pass by. As they hunkered down in the mud, Dutch glanced over at Hosea and the conman met his gaze, flashing a conspiratorial grin. It was in that moment, with both of them looking like shit, smelling like it too, with pieces of hay in their hair and wads of cash stuck in their pockets, that Dutch knew that he would miss this. Maybe not the hard ground under bedrolls, or the way everything got damp and moldy when it rained, but everything else…the robbing and looting, the hiding from lawmen, the look in people’s eyes when they handed over stolen cash to orphanages, the moving from one beautiful place to another, the _freedom_.

This was so unequivocally _them_ , and they’d always have a part of it in them, no matter how settled down they got in their ranch house or how many herds of cattle they raised. And here they were at the end of it…behind this barn, they stood at the closing of a chapter.

As they teetered on the line between their old life and the future, Dutch dug into his pocket, searching. Hosea cast a puzzled look at him, but said nothing, still listening to make sure they really had eluded the bounty hunters. At last the outlaw’s fingers closed around what he had been looking for: a plain silver ring he’d taken from one of the bank vaults. Folding his hand around it, he glanced up at Hosea, heart beating too fast for it to just be the adrenaline of the escape.

“Hey,” he said softly, and when the conman looked over he opened his fingers, revealing the silver band lying in his palm. “Will you marry me?”

The look in Hosea’s eyes told him the answer before the man even nodded, one hand fluttering up to cover his mouth. “Yes,” he whispered through his fingers, “Of course, of course I will.”

He held out his hand, then hesitated, and both their gazes fell on the gold band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. The ring Bessie had put there on their wedding day. Hosea faltered, but Dutch didn’t miss a beat, catching the man’s right hand instead.

“We never followed the rules anyway,” he said, and Hosea laughed quietly, the sound full of joy.

“I suppose not.”

Neither of them were criers, but both of them had tears in their eyes as Dutch slipped the silver ring on Hosea’s finger. When it was secure, Hosea wrapped his arms around Dutch’s neck, pulling him forward into a long kiss. Dutch let his eyes close, savoring the feeling of their first kiss as an engaged couple, hugging the other man tight, _his_ man, his husband-to-be.

Their little celebration was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats coming down the road and they sprang apart, crouching down again and peering through a gap in the fence. The bounty hunters rode by the stable without stopping, and Hosea let out a snort.

“Fools.”

“Better for us,” Dutch said, rising to his feet and offering a hand. “Shall we find ourselves some horses?”

“Sounds like a good plan, my dear,” Hosea replied, letting Dutch pull him to his feet, and the outlaw smiled at the term of endearment, still giddy from the kiss. Hosea was grinning like an idiot as well, something rare these days, and it only made Dutch’s heart swell bigger in his chest.

“Let’s get married as soon as we get the house,” Hosea said as they headed toward the horses grazing in the stable’s pasture. “We’ll have a proper bedroom.”

“Just in time for our wedding night,” Dutch quipped, planting another kiss on Hosea’s cheek. “Sounds wonderful to me.”

Hosea entwined his fingers in Dutch’s, the ring pressing into their skin. “My husband,” he murmured, as if trying out the word. “Hosea van der Linde? Dutch Matthews?”

“Dutch Matthews,” the outlaw mused, clambering over the pasture fence. Hosea climbed to the top and dropped into waiting arms, Dutch’s hands resting on his husband-to-be’s hips to steady him. “It’s not awful, but I’m not sure if I could get used to it.”

“Hosea van der Linde is alright, but….” Hosea looped his arms loosely around Dutch’s shoulders.

“But?”

“I’d like to keep ‘Matthews’, I think.”

“Because of Bessie?”

“Is it odd to be thinking of her?” Hosea asked carefully, and Dutch shook his head. Of course it wasn’t odd…Bessie had been the only other person Hosea adored enough to marry, and his love for her wouldn’t die out simply because he was marrying again.

“No. Besides,” he continued as they headed toward two morgans grazing nearby, “Hearing you called ‘Mr. van der Linde’ would be a little silly.”

“Not like we’ll be announcing our marriage to the world,” Hosea sighed, petting his mare before pulling himself up onto her back.

“A shame,” Dutch said, guiding his morgan around by the plain rope reins. “I’d love to boast about being married to you to everyone I meet.”

Hosea rolled his eyes at that and they kicked the horses into canters across the pasture, jumping the fence at the back as the stablehand came running out of the barn, hollering after them. When they were trotting through the trees toward camp, Dutch said,

“You know…we could combine our names.”

“You mean like when Javier called us ‘Dosea’ and made Arthur laugh for days by saying it every time he saw us together?”

Dutch chuckled, slowing his horse down a bit so they could ride side by side. “No. I mean, yes, but nothing so ridiculous. ‘Van der Matthews’ isn’t so awful, is it?”

“Van der Matthews.” Hosea rolled the name around on his tongue for a moment before nodding. “Van der Matthews Ranch has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

“It sounds like a place I’d like to live,” Dutch agreed, and Hosea reached across the space between them, squeezing the outlaw’s hand.

“It’s perfect.”

“Just like you.”

“You’re a romantic. My romantic.”

“My silver fox.”

Hosea smiled, shaking his head, and Dutch leaned down to pat his horse. “Race you back? Loser has to tell the camp we’re a couple.”

“We’ve been a couple for years,” Hosea argued as they reached a path cutting through the trees.

“Then you won’t mind if I win!” Dutch flicked the reins, prompting the morgan into a run, and set off down the road. Behind him, he heard Hosea urge his mare forward, and spared a glance over his shoulder so he could see the grin on the conman’s face. “Better hurry, old girl!”

“You’ll eat my dust!” Hosea replied, and Dutch laughed, the sound free and clear. They thundered off down the path, side by side, the echo of their laughter lingering in the warm afternoon air as they vanished over a hill toward the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never write them happy. This was a treat :)


	7. (Bessie/Hosea/Dutch Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little thing about Hosea being in love with Bessie and Dutch. This is actually meant to go with a drawing I did, you can see it on my instagram @Nevareck_TopHatCat
> 
> If anyone wants to expand on this scene, please go ahead! I only ask that you let me know so I can read it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agai

He couldn't help himself. Tears began to escape from the corners of his eyes, running down his face to his chin and to where Dutch was kissing his cheek.

When the salty drops touched the outlaw’s tongue, Dutch drew back a fraction, then suddenly seemed to realize his lover was _crying_ , for his entire body stiffed and his hands stopped their wandering over Hosea's chest and stomach and hips.

"Hosea?" He leaned out from behind the other man so he could look him in the face, and Hosea opened his eyes at the shift, the world made blurry with tears. Bessie leaned forward from where she was seated between his legs, immediately recognizing from Dutch's tone that something was amiss.

"What's the matter?" she asked, concerned. "Honey, are you okay?"

A sob he'd been holding back escaped from Hosea, and before he knew it he was weeping outright, and he covered his face with his hands, ears turning red with embarrassment.

At once, Bessie had her arms around him, kissing his hair and whispering, "Shh, dearest, tell me what's wrong? What the matter?" as Dutch's hands stroked up and down his arms and shoulders in gentle, comforting motions, and whiskery kisses were put to the back of his neck.

"Don't be afraid," the outlaw murmured, "It's us, you can tell us. Is it too much?"

Hosea shook his head, unable to articulate words properly, his throat stopped up with sobs and so much _love_ for the two who held him so close. They apparently took the motion the wrong way, for Bessie leaned back and said,

"We can stop," and Hosea felt Dutch nod in agreement.

He couldn't help himself; he laughed, wiping his eyes, and saw them exchange a look of confusion.

"Sillies," he whispered, "I'm happy, so very happy. These aren't tears of sadness."

He felt them both relax at his statement and Dutch growled, "You worried me!"

Bessie took his face in her hands, kissing his forehead. "Are you sure?"

"Perfectly." He wrapped one arm around Bessie and lifted the other to touch Dutch's cheek. "I'm just so very _in love_ with you both. I simply can't handle it, I'm sorry."

"Oh, dearest," Bessie smiled, and put her arms tightly around him again. "I love you too. So much."

Dutch buried his face in Hosea's shoulder, arms looping around his middle and gripping him close. "So very much," he echoed quietly. "My beautiful Hosea."

They held on like they never wanted to let go, and between his two wonderful, precious, _special_ people, Hosea closed his eyes and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if anyone wants to expand on this scene, please do! Just tell me, so I can read it! <3


	8. Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's short, it's sappy, it's sad but sweet. It may have mistakes because I wrote it on my phone. These ideas just come on suddenly and I must get them down. I like me some repeating phrases.  
> Basically just a blurb about a happy ending and the passing of husbands.

Hosea died five years before Dutch.  
But that was okay.  
Because the spring morning he passed, Dutch got out of their bed, sleepy-eyed and weary from waking up to his husband's cough in the night, but he said nothing of it, only opened the curtains and kissed Hosea's wrinkled, liver-spotted forehead, and he was rewarded with a small, contented smile from his partner, so all the hardship and troubles were worth it.  
And when he returned to the bedroom with two cups of coffee and two pieces of toast, there was no one to share the meal with, but that was okay, because Hosea's still face wore an expression that held the quiet of peace rather than silent regrets.  
There weren't many people to attend when they buried Hosea in the ground.  
But that was okay.  
Because those who came were those who mattered most. Arthur held his hat with both hands and did his best not to cry until Charles put his arms around him and he broke down to pieces. John and Abigail and Jack stood in tight group with their hands locked tight together as John bit his lip so hard he left dents in the skin. Susan sat in a chair and pretended not to notice her make-up was running, and she didn't brush Tilly's hand off when the young woman touched her shoulder. Lenny came all the way from the city and he read the words from a Bible, the small worn version that Hosea had put beside the bed on their first night in the ranch house.  
Dutch stood at the end of the grave as Arthur and John shovelled dirt on top of the coffin, but it was alright... because when they were done, his sons didn't leave his side as he sat in the damp grass until the dawn arrived the next morning.  
Afterwards, the house was too empty, the bed too cold, and evening walks a little more lonely.  
But it was tolerable.  
Because Arthur stayed the night in the beginning, and then any night afterwards when Dutch crossed the path and knocked on the door with a haunted, lost look on his face. And John an Abigail brought Jack around every afternoon after school, and the boy talked about all the poems and stories he was reading. He filled the silence with his enthusiasm for words while Abigail cooked dinner and John did work around the house and yard.  
Susan wasn't quite the same, in regards to a walking companion, but Dutch enjoyed her company in slow strolls around the place, and she knew how to make him laugh.  
Tilly brought her children for visits when she could, and Lenny came for every holiday, including birthdays, and he and Dutch would discuss philosophy until someone else groaned and begged to change the subject.  
Nothing was the same, but that was okay, because of course it wouldn't be. It couldn't be.  
Dutch died before the first frost of the fifth year after Hosea's passing.  
He knew death was coming, as he sat in the chair by the evening fire. He heard footsteps on the floorboards coming closer and looked up with a tired, welcoming eye.  
"Hello, old friend," he said with a chuckle, and Hosea smiled, leaning down to kiss his brow. "One last ride?"  
"One last ride," came his husband's, his partner's, reply, and Dutch accepted the embrace with open arms and a light heart.  
Arthur found him, in the morning, eyes closed and no weight on his shoulders. In his hands he held an old photograph of him and Hosea grinning at the camera, and Arthur figured that they must be okay... because, wherever death had taken them to...they were together.


	9. He Loves Me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hosea doesn't think flowers predict love...Dutch is too romantic for his own good.

"Dutch has been sitting there a very long time..."

"You know what he's doing?"

"Probably reciting poetry in his head or something."

Arthur and John's conversation did not escape Hosea, who was sitting only a short space away, grinding yarrow into something more edible. Looking around, he found the man they were talking about... sitting at the edge of camp with his back to the tents, back bowed but no book in his hands as far as was obvious. Setting the bowl down, Hosea waited until the boys' attention was diverted, then got to his feet and crossed casually over to where his partner sat.

"Hello," he said as he reached Dutch's shoulder, and the man grunted in response. "Something on your mind?"

Dutch glanced downward and Hosea followed his gaze to a tiny flower pinched between his fingers. Its pink petals were mostly gone, save one.

"That flower gone and hurt your feelings?" Hosea teased, and Dutch let out a frustrated sigh.

"It ended on 'he loves me not!'"

Hosea's brow furrowed. "What?"

Dutch didn't meet his eyes, spinning the flower around and around. "He loves me...He loves me not." He waved his other hand in the air. "Picking the petals off...you know!"

Hosea felt a bubble of laughter rise in his throat. He had been joking when he asked if this flower was the source of Dutch's mood but it seemed that such a thing was, in fact, the truth. Settling to his knees, he propped an arm on Dutch's leg and looked up into his face. "So... you're putting all of our love in the hands, er, petals of a single, tiny, flower?"

Dutch glared at him. "No! I-...." He turned away again, the flower no longer spinning in his grasp. "I just don't like it."

A flutter of something went through Hosea's heart and his instinct to tease faded. He inched a little closer, resting his chin on Dutch's knee. "I don't care if a thousand flowers say I don't love you...they're wrong."

Dutch cast him a tiny smile, but it wasn't enough to satisfy Hosea. So he leaned his head forward and closed his lips around the small pink petal, breaking the delicate bond between it and the stem. Pulling back, he spit it onto the ground as Dutch watched, then smirked up at the man.

"That's what I think of your 'he loves you not' bullshit."

A similar smile broke over Dutch face and he tossed the empty stem aside. "You're not a romantic creature, Hosea."

"I know it." Hosea pushed himself up as Dutch leaned down and their lips met in the middle for a hard kiss that softened as their fingers linked in Dutch's lap. When they drew apart, Hosea pressed a small, follow-up kiss to Dutch's cheek and smiled so his eyes crinkled. "Don't listen to the flowers, dear. I can assure you..he loves you lots."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading :)  
> Instagram: @nevareck_tophatcat  
> Twitter: @NeveWaboink


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